White Rabbit

Part Nine

The usuals are in the day room. Carrie, flitting around the tables organizing magazines and decks of cards. Millie, sitting beside Laura silently, in that comforting way she has. May, in the corner with her head against the wall, eyes still lidded, face still lax from heavily sedating drugs. And David, still here to keep an eye on everyone, but on his own, now, no longer following me from room to room. The other patients are all elsewhere. In their rooms, probably.

The TV is on again, some morning talk show I'm not familiar with. I never watched TV much on the outside. Nina wasn't a big fan, and my roommate always hogged the one in our apartment when she was home, which was most of the time. They're talking about healthy cupcakes. I sit down at the table in the corner and Carrie approaches, fiddling with the magazines.

"This is so dumb," she mutters. I can barely hear her, the way she talks under her breath when she thinks nobody's listening. "Whoever heard of a healthy cupcake? Cupcakes aren't supposed to be healthy, they're just supposed to taste good. If you want to be healthy, eat a carrot."

I can't help it. I burst out laughing for the first time in ages, and even though it's just one short, quick bark, it still knocks pounds and pounds of weight off my back.

Carrie jumps and looks up, her feathery blonde hair sticky with static from her socked feet shuffling on the floor. She looks like a cat that's just had a balloon rubbed over its back. She has the same wide eyes, the same crease in her pale brow.

"What?" she murmurs. "Are you laughing at me?" She stands up a little straighter. "It's not my fault you guys keep fucking up the magazines! I'm just trying to keep them organized --"

I put my hands up and shake my head. "No, no, I'm not laughing at you," I say. "I just heard what you said. About the cupcake. I thought it was funny."

Her shoulders relax and her thin arms unfold to drop at her sides. She smiles, small and lopsided. "Really? You think I'm funny?"

"Well, I thought that was funny, anyway."

Carrie laughs and wiggles a little in interpretation of a dance. "Diana thinks I'm funny, Diana thinks I'm funny," she sings. I chuckle again, and she goes back to fixing the magazines, still singing under her breath.

***

"So, what did you want to talk with me about, Diana?"

The therapist's name is James. He's young, maybe a few years older than me. In grad school. The ID hanging from his shirt has a big red bar with "STUDENT" written across it in white letters. There's no one in the room but us. I glance around, looking for cameras. Nothing.

What about microphones? she whispers. One more glance around the room. Still nothing.

"Diana?"

I look back at James again, at his boyish freckled face and short auburn hair, brown eyes way too big for a grown man with an innocence that most of the other people here have lost already.

"Actually," I start. "Um..."

He waits. I don't continue.

He prompts me with my name again.

"This is really hard for me, okay?" I croak. I run my hand over the back of my neck. My hair is wiry and greasy on the backs of my knuckles. Dead skin gathers under my fingernails when I scratch. I've been here over a week and still haven't been able to brave the showers.

The lavender cardigan Nina brought me is soft on the sensitive scars on my wrist, most of them from razors and knives, except the one on the back of my left arm, which is from --